


Pinned

by exxcision (eggpainter)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slow Burn, Time Travel, life is strange au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7218235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggpainter/pseuds/exxcision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia's phone will buzz four times. </p><p>Some asshole will throw paper at the back of Erica's head.</p><p>Stiles knows that these will happen because he's lived this day before.<br/>----<br/>Life Is Strange/Time Travel AU because I must.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinned

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a heat of the moment fic- I just finished Life Is Strange for the first time and thought it would be fun to play around with as an au, considering I really like the story of Life Is Strange but I also really like Sterek. I probably will try to make the ending less heart breaking than the ending in Life Is Strange, if I can even do so believably?

Where am I?

Stiles' voice echoes into his own head as his widened eyes watch a swelling fire consume a house. His mind races with questions. What's happening? Where is the fire coming from? When did it start? He moves his arms to shield his face from ember flakes that swirl around him. He turns away from the house and stumbles into the thick woods at his back, coughing smoke from his lungs. How did I get here? Where is here? The crackling of the fire continues to roar in his ears, no matter how far he runs. He can see the trees thinning until they reach a road. 

If I can just get to the road... if I can just make it...  
His shoe snags on a dip in the ground and he collapses onto his side. He's heaving for breath as he tries to push himself off the ground with his elbows. The fire has spread rapidly around him, closing him in. It licks at his skin and singes his hair. He cowers right as the fire is about to-

Stiles jerks awake in his chair, an unreleased scream on the tip of his tongue. He scans his surroundings with doe eyed panic and assesses he's sitting in class. Peter- Mr. Hale drones about some hopeless, sorrow, tortured soul photographer or another while Stiles watches the class with a focus he didn't know he was capable of. To his left, Lydia's phone buzzes a rapid fire series of four times, out of the corner of his eye he sees a small paper ball fly by and hit the back of Erica's head. He stares down at his lap, blinking, trying to snap himself out of whatever trance he's in. 

I probably look like a lunatic right now. I'm probably paler than a ghost. He fumbles to grab his camera, and after darting his eyes around the room to make sure no one is watching ducks his head and snaps a picture with his polaroid to check. 

"Shh, I believe Stiles has taken what you kids call a ''selfie''..."

Shit.

"Since, you've captured our interest and decided to join us for class here today, can you please tell me the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?"

He wets his lips anxiously. Time to bullshit.

"Well, sir, I did know! It's just that, I didn't sleep well last night, I can't seem to recall it... At the current... Moment?"

Nailed it?

Mr. Hale sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Stiles, if you're going to waste mine and everyone else's time, please do it more efficiently. Does anyone else here actually know anything about the great history of photography?"

Stiles swears he can see Lydia shimmer as she embarrasses him with a spot on answer accented with a bright smile at the end, preening under Mr. Hale's praise. He's never been more happy to hear the bell ring and free them to the outside world.

"Everyone! Don't forget to submit your photo to the "Everyday Heroes" contest! The winner will fly with me to New York and have a chance to make the connections they'll need for a successful photography career. And Stiles, I need to talk to you." Mr. Hale calls out as the other students scramble out as quickly as they can.

Stiles' hands shake as he packs his bag. He's trying to figure out a way to slip out without Mr. Hale seeing him- it's not that he doesn't want to talk, he's just still shaken up over his weird dream- vision- whatever it was. Well, that on top of the fact that he doesn't want to hand in his photo submission yet. He pulls his bag over his shoulder, ready to beeline for the door when out of the corner of his eye he catches Erica visibly shrinking-in on herself. He dances on his toes and struggles over whether he's selfish enough to walk out. His conscience wins and he maneuvers to her desk.

"Hi, Erica."  
He slides his palms over the front of his jeans, more out of nerves than anything else.  
Her eyes flicker up to him, ""Oh, hi Stiles."  
He worries his lip searching for what to say, "You've been... Quiet today."  
She sighs, "I've been thinking a lot..."  
He replies, "If you want, you're welcome to come over to drink hot chocolate and vent?"  
She returns with a hollow smile, "I'll see if I have time tonight."  
He gives a quick thumbs up and moves away before he can embarrass himself more.

He notices Lydia leaning over Mr. Hale's desk, swirling a lock of perfect hair around her finger. Stiles decides to take advantage of the distraction as best he can and heads for the door. His fingers are wrapping around the handle and he can taste the sweet, sweet freedom- 

"Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles' hand freezes and he awkwardly twists his body around, "Ohhh did you mean talk today? Like as in today? Today we're talking?" 

Lydia huffs before rolling her eyes and pushing out past him, leaving Stiles to shuffle over and stand at the head of the desk alone.

"You need to be handing in your final contest picture, I'm sure it's great- whatever it is." He starts.

Stiles grips instinctually at the pocket his photo is sitting in.  
"I want to! I just... Haven't had any time... I've been so busy with all of my homework and I-"

"Stiles Stilinski," he interrupts, "you're a damn fine photographer, but a terrible liar. You have a gift that I refuse to let you waste. You're young, talented, you have countless opportunities to explore. I just want the best for you and your art."

Stiles nods, eyes locked on his sneakers, "I understand."

Peter claps a hand to his shoulder, "Good! Now go, be free, but remember your photo needs to be in my hands by Wednesday at eight or I can't accept it."

Stiles nods once more before practically dashing to the door and exiting the room. He closes the door with his whole body, pressing his back against it to catch his breath and his mind. As his mind clears, so do the murmurs around him. He fumbles while finding his headphones.

"That's him, the hipster kid."

"He carries a fucking instant polaroid like it's the fucking 80's."

"He's trying too hard... I mean really a flannel and a beanie...?"

"He acts like he doesn't give a shit in every single class, that fucker ought to-"

The voices are replaced with the soft strum of a guitar projected directly into his ears, he releases a sigh he hadn't realized he was holding. 

Fuck this, he needs some cold water and a mental breakdown; he starts toward the bathrooms. 

Fuck Beacon Hills, fuck this shitty school, fuck all the people here. He thought it would be nice to come back here- to get out of the city, get out of L.A. He thought it was a dream come true when his acceptance letter with a full ride scholarship to the Beacon Hills prep school showed up- to study under the great Peter Hale, to reconnect with his childhood friends and best friend, Derek, to eat at the restaurants he begged for as a child. The town felt nothing like it used to feel- it was all shitty high-school politics with a side of angry rich kids to boot. He missed his dad, he missed his house. He missed feeling right.

He pushes open the bathroom door and rushes to a sink. He splashes the coldest water he can get on his face, rubbing his eyes clear. He leans over the porcelain to breathe, to calm himself after stopping the water. He pulls out his photo he was hoping to submit from his pocket and stares at it with a mix of every emotion he can think to feel. The photo is a simple shot, it's him with his back to the camera, unfocused, facing a wall, which is focused, covered in photos that tell his life story, illuminated softly by lantern fairy lights. He tears the photo into uneven halves and drops both pieces to the floor. It's for the best, he rationalizes. It wasn't a good photo anyways.

A baby blue butterfly flies into the bathroom to his left. At first, he blinks, shocked. Then he moves, he'll never get the chance for a shot like this again, maybe this is the shot he's been waiting for. He ends up in the far corner of the bathroom crouching over a metal bucket and snapping the picture of the baby blue butterfly. He takes a moment, a moment just to revel in the magic of the moment.

The door slams open and someone angrily paces the length of the bathroom, mumbling gibberish under their breath. Stiles peaks around the corner to see Jackson Whittemore running his hands through his hair and shaking uncontrollably. Stiles slips back into the corner. A few seconds later the door opens a second time and Stiles hears the clicking of shoes against tile approaching closer. 

Shit.

"I assume you've already checked out the place to make sure no one is here?" 

Double shit.

"What the fuck do you want, man?" Jackson sounds panicked, but the other man's steps recede and Stiles' heart manages to lower from his throat. 

"You're gonna shut the fuck up about me, and I'll manage to keep quiet about you. What would everyone think if they found out the youngest Whittemore can't even go a fucking day without-"

Stiles hears a click and a shuffle that ends with a thump. He peaks back around the corner to see Jackson pressing a guy made out of bricks and stubble to the wall with an odd looking gun under his chin. Stiles clasps a hand over his mouth to stop a performance- worthy gasp from breaking his lips.

"No, you listen here you plotting little shit, you're gonna shut the fuck up, permanently." Jackson's voice comes as a hiss.

"You're an idiot, they're going to hear the gun you know. There are only two of us in the bathroom, they can put one and two together."

"Yeah? And if they do? I'm a fucking Whittemore, I'm untouchable."

"You don't know what you're getting into, just put the gun down and we can walk away from-" 

Stiles hears the shot and feels his body react before his mind can catch up. He's around the corner reaching out to the collapsing man whose eyes have already glazed over, ignoring the fact that Jackson is still there gripping the gun in a shaking hand. Stiles right arm extends completely and then he's sitting at his desk. Mr. Hale is perched across from him, lecturing.

Stiles is dazed to say the least- he's closer to fucking petrified. His eyes dart around the room. Lydia's phone buzzes four times, rapid fire. A ball of paper hits the back of Erica's head. He's reliving his day 20 minutes before, like he didn't just watch someone get fucking murdered in front of him. He fumbles for the polaroid, remembering what he did before and snaps the picture of himself.

"Shh, I believe Stiles has taken what you kids call a ''selfie''..."

Holy fuck.

"Since, you've captured our interest and decided to join us for class here today, can you please tell me the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?"

He stares at Mr. Hale, dazed, mouth gaping like a fish unable to form a single word.

Lydia sighs a put upon sigh, and recites the answer, "Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created "daguerreotypes“, a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror."

"Very good Lydia, but please don't answer unless invited to."

The bell rings and Stiles stares at his hands. If this is real- if this real he's gone back in time. He's gone back in fucking time and the boy in the bathroom hasn't been shot yet.

"Everyone! Don't forget to submit your photo to the "Everyday Heroes" contest! The winner will fly with me to New York and have a chance to make the connections they'll-" Stiles doesn't hear the rest of the repeated line as he bolts to the bathroom and does his best to recreate what he did earrlier, crouching in the corner with the metal bucket and baby blue butterfly. He waits, and he hears it. The door slams open, someone is pacing. A few moments pass, the door opens again, the familiar click of shoes. 

"I assume you've already checked out the place to make sure no one is here?" 

Dead guy.

"What the fuck do you want, man?"

Jackson.

"You're gonna shut the fuck up about me, and I'll manage to keep quiet about you. What would everyone think if they found out the youngest Whittemore can't even go a fucking day without-"

He hears the click, he hears the shuffle. His eyes dart around his surroundings and he sees the fire alarm. He elbows in the glass and pulls it, sending the alarm pulsing through the school. 

He hears a grunt and a struggle. He peaks around again to see the gun on the floor and the would-be dead guy pushing Jackson off of him.

"Just stay the fuck away from me and my sister." The man spits at Jackson before turning on his heel and exiting the bathroom. 

Stiles sinks to the floor, a tremble running through his body, he saved that man's life. He saved that mans life by jumping through time. He turns both of his hands palm up toward his eyes, and stares at them with fear. 

What the hell is he supposed to do now?


End file.
